Page 41 of Never Have I Ever

Laird

She’s a professional chef.

Impressed again.

We never got around to telling many stories before our relationship got cut short. But I finally understand why Poppy has knife tattoos on her hip.

Bold like I knew she was back then. Fortunately not a psycho like I thought the other night. She’s fascinated me since the moment we met, and I feel honored to learn so much more about her now.

Time is ticking and is about to run out. A mechanic is determining our future. Wonder if I could bribe him to take his time? Not that I would do that. I’m desperate, but I still have a guaranteed twenty-four hours. I’m hoping she’ll agree to stay longer once we spend more time together.

With my feet kicked up on the coffee table, I scroll, looking for clues on how to approach amnesia. I want to remind her that we once fell madly in love and made promises and plans. But no matter what, I need to keep her safe despite wanting to selfishly rush the process.

Another article says the same as the last fifteen I’ve read. “Let the memories come back naturally.”

Encourage.

Gently remind.

Don’t force or get impatient.

“The memories will return when they’re ready.”

I highly doubt that’s in the next day or two, but it could also be never.

Fuck.

“What are you reading?” Poppy asks from across the room.

Dropping my feet to the floor, I sit up. “I didn’t see you there.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt you. You seemed focused.”

Did she overhear me? Is she onto me? “I was scrolling social media. Just passing the time.”

“Ah.” She opens the fridge and stares inside. “What do you want for lunch?”

“For lunch?” You so much—to kiss your lips and touch your tits, to make you see fireworks with my tongue, and then watch as you return to me afterward. I can still see her so vividly from that weekend. The instant chemistry when we met, getting tipsy off beers, whiskey, and each other, licking sticky sweet barbecue sauce from the corner of her mouth, and then kissing her until we fell into bed. She danced for me—naked and carefree.

I fell so fucking hard for her that night.

Now, she doesn’t even know who I am.

As I look down at my phone, the screen goes dark but not before reminding me of her condition.

“Laird?”

“I’m good.” I want to throw my phone so hard against the wall and let out the anger that two and a half years have brought out. Not toward her. Never toward her but toward the heartbreak of the situation. “The omelet was filling.”

I think she likes to be busy because she starts pulling out odds and ends and some plates. “Do you think the mechanic can tow my car to the shop?”

“Yeah. If not, I can.”

“What if it snows again?” She peers through the kitchen window. “It’s not snowing, but will there be more tomorrow?” The chopping is quick, the carrots never standing a chance against her knife skills.

When I check the app, my stomach sinks. “The weather looks clear.”

“That’s good.”

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